I’ll be honest: I won’t be blogging nearly as frequently as I had in the past. Which I’ve said previously. But I’m taking another crack at it due to my recent increased involvement in the social mediasphere. More on that later.

In the meantime, let me tell you about what I did yesterday morning:

This is not what the announcement on the Nats website looked like several weeks ago. At that point, it mentioned that in-person auditions would be on Saturday, March 12. And it gave instructions on how to apply. Only the first 100 applicants would be accepted. My trusty wife, K, nudged me to get in my email, a headshot, and my cantorial resume I had used for high holiday gigs a few years back. She submitted hers as well.

A week later, we received confirmation emails: we were in! And earlier this week, another email with specific instructions: the centerfield gate for Nats Park would open at 9:30 to let auditioners in. They’d be locked again at 10:00, so make sure that you get there on time (or even early). Renditions of the Star Spangled Banner could only be up to a minute and a half; after that one could get cut off by the judges.

Even with this information, we really didn’t know what to expect. Would we be auditioning in the stands? In one of the conference rooms? Would auditions take place simultaneously? What would the caliber of the other auditioners be like?

As for me — I’m no stranger to the Star Spangled Banner. I was even chosen to sing it at my high school graduation over two decades ago. And since then? I’ve led high holiday services and sung for upwards of a thousand people at a time. Surely this would be no problem. K was also in the same boat with her singing and cantorial experiences. And she just has an awesome voice.

We arrived to the stadium at about 9:00 yesterday morning. It was cold — colder than we had dressed for. But at least we could park in the adjacent garage — something we could never do on crowded game days. It looked like we had a good 50 people ahead of us in line. We saw people of all ages, some dressed up nicely more casually. The couple in front of us seemed to know just about everyone in line — overhearing them made it feel like K and I were the only ones there who weren’t somehow associated with the Washington Choral Arts Society.

Intimidating.

But they opened the gates, allowing us to march right in. We checked in at a table and were assigned numbers. We sat in order in the front section of the park, right behind home plate. These were the seats we’d never sat in before — because we’re cheap. And prefer spending considerably less than $65 a pop for the privilege. But today — we had front row seats to — well, the first two minutes of every single baseball game. Repeated over and over again.

Because that’s precisely what happened. In groups of five, singers lined up at the visitor’s dugout. And then, one by one, they came out onto the field to sing the Star Spangled Banner. Our national anthem. Over and over again.

Did I mention that there was a microphone on the field? Connected to the sound system in the park? With a noticeable delay? This was the big time. Yikes…

So — #1 came and went quickly. It was a man in his 40s with a pretty good voice. We all applauded after he finished. Next up was a woman with an incredible voice. We clapped for her, too. And then the next one — great. The one after that? Amazing.

I suppose I was expecting at least a few people who would fit the “outrageously abysmal American Idol audition” level of talent. But no. Every single person who was there had some talent. There were a few who started too high. Or stopped in the middle. Or changed keys several times during their renditions. But because of the moderate level of hoops people had to jump through to actually get the audition slot, people took it quite seriously. Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that there would be less of a chance to get on national television by making a fool of yourself.

We kept on listening to each of the singers, one by one. Singing the same anthem. Some of them sang it straight, others were more intricate. Some held the microphone; some left it in its stand. Some were more reminiscent of opera singers; some were totally Mariah-ing it up.

And the fumes! I forgot to mention the epoxy fumes from the repainting which was going on right in the next section. The painters were wearing full-on gas masks, but we got to experience the odor straight on while we listened. It was sort of like the sensation we all have experienced when getting completely smashed on a Saturday night and finding yourself waking up in the alley behind a Home Depot with your iPod playing Celine Dion on repeat.

There were also a few choral groups auditioning together. One was a high school group that and a bunch of kids who looked like the anti-Glee. There was an adult choral society with some nice harmonies. A group of four kids, probably all younger than twelve, were practicing their harmonies behind us — but lost them as we only heard the melody as they came up. A few young girls were there with parents in tow.

And the steel guitar guy. The only instrumentalist of the bunch, he played beautifully. He was somewhere around number 30. It was getting closer to my turn…

As each participant sang, I felt less confident in my own abilities. Had I practiced sufficiently? Had I picked a good key? Did I look okay? Would the delay between my voice and the P.A. system royally screw me up?

It finally came time for me to get “on deck” and stand near the dugout. The guy singing in front of me chose a note on his iPhone, sang the anthem beautifully, and ended the last word, “brave,” having it ascend two more steps. So it was more like “braaaaa–aaaaa–aaaaaaave?” (The question mark, by the way, is there because the anthem itself is simply a bunch of questions, albeit rhetorical. I like that idea. Instead of having a declarative “We’re number one!” approach, it’s more Chandleresque, as in “Could we be any more number one?” But I digress…)

I walked towards the microphone, passing the guy who had just finished. I offered my hand and he shook it. My body continued shaking as I walked the rest of the way. I decided I would hold the mic in my hand so I could control the volume myself.

I announced my name in the microphone when prompted, and was taken aback by how loud it was. And the delay! It was like the voice of God repeating what I had said — only if God had a whiny and somewhat nasal inflection. I was told to start when I was ready…

Oooh say can you see? By the dawn’s early light…

Dammit! I had started slightly too low. My intonation was off. And at that moment, things started to unravel. I remember perilous fights, but I’m pretty sure the words before that were a jumble of mixed up ones that simply didn’t make sense. HOW COULD I FORGET THE WORDS TO A SONG THAT I HAD JUST HEARD 46 TIMES IN A ROW?!? At that moment I forgave Christina Aguilera for her stint at the Superbowl. Even though it wasn’t a huge crowd, it was intimidating — singing for a group of three or four who seemed so far away in the stands. (Turns out they were only about five rows out.)

But you know what? I think I reclaimed it at O’er the ramparts we watched. I don’t have video of me (camera issue), but perhaps that’s for the best so I don’t overly criticize myself. I did the best I could, and I remember people clapping for me. That’s a nice feeling at the end of any performance.

As I walked back and it was K’s turn, we gave each other a quick kiss and kept walking. I was able to get her on video from the dugout:

We waited for the next wave of singers and then were led out, around the field through the loading dock. We were told that the singers selected would hear via email over the next few weeks.

It’s unlikely that I’ll get chosen. There were people there with far more talent than I. But I’m certainly glad I did it.

I’m starting to practice for the 2012 season just in case…

—

By the way — I’ve blogged recently at Aiming Low, a wonderful site with some great, talented writers. You can find my piece, Of Slugs and Groupon Codes, here. And I’m also co-hosting a podcast with the wonderfully talented Faiqa of Native Born. You can find us at http://www.HeyThatsMyHummus.com.

I say this because I, too, lost my mother so quickly and so shockingly by surprise. One day she was alive and vibrant; the next she simply wasn’t. I was caught off guard. I didn’t know what to do, what to think, how to feel. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye or have goodbye said to me. I know what it’s like.

At the same time, however, I share my own experience losing my mother with no one. Everyone’s moment is unique with different circumstances, different consequences, and different thoughts and emotions scattered around one’s life like the remnants of a vase shattered into thousands of pieces. Those individual pieces are different shapes than those which were my mourning, and even as a whole my time with my mother was different than the time with yours. I guess what I’m trying to say is that nobody can claim to know 100% what you’re going through. Nobody has had the exact chain of events occurring like you have them now.

There are those of us, however, who have had similar experiences. That’s why I’m writing this to you. Actually, I’ve told you most of these things on the phone a few days ago, but I know that both you and I share a passion in helping others who may benefit from our past experiences, and putting this out there may reach others who can use these words.

We talked about you being on “auto-pilot.” This is normal; it was my experience when a rush of tasks had to be completed and had to be completed immediately. Neither you nor I had been prepared for what took us by surprise, and there suddenly were plans to cancel, people to call, places to visit, arrangements to be made, and physical inevitabilities to occur. Both you and I had to be the first ones to fully realize the transition that had to be made. I don’t remember most of the details when I went through it; looking back at it it felt like I was fast-forwarding through those tasks in my life. Those around me said that I was amazing. That I remained composed. That I had really stepped up and completed some incredibly difficult things. From what you’ve told me and how you’ve told it to me, it seems like you’re also auto-piloting incredibly well.

We both ran into so many obstacles regarding things we simply didn’t have answers for; things that were never discussed for no other reason than death happening far too soon. It’s easy to beat oneself up about the things for which one is not prepared, and I applaud you for not doing that through these past few days. If you do — it’s okay. There will be a lot of “what if” playing that will occur as time goes by. It’s important to know, however, that this was not, in any way, your failure to do anything. It’s just the way it is. You’ll likely have a hard time believing this because, like me, you are your own harshest critic. I will perpetually be here to remind you otherwise if you need me to; so will the others in your life you care about you.

I told you about the way that my Jewish tradition views the person who is grieving the loss of a close relative: there are two stages of “mourner” that one can be. The first defines that stage of disorientation and shock that one goes through when one begins to realize his/her loss. This person, called an onen, is supposed to channel his/her energy to the funeral/burial process — and is able to bypass other certain Jewish laws and customs in order to reach that end goal. The second stage is after the funeral where one is considered an avel, someone who then goes through the gradual process of grieving and being helped by the community. I know that this isn’t specifically your faith tradition, but I found the distinction helpful: you, my friend, have been spending the recent days preparing for your mother’s funeral. And during that time you’ve been that superhero version of yourself, pushing yourself toward that one goal. That’s okay. Just know that there will be mourning after the fact as well, and you may be experiencing things on a different level at that time.

It is always — always, always, always — okay to ask for help. You’re so used to being the one who is there to help someone out. You enjoy helping others and being the resourceful one, whether at work or with your peers. There is no shame in feeling that this is something you can’t go at alone. It does not make you a failure. It does not make you weak. It makes you a human being going through a difficult time.

And with that? You’ll find that some people will be wonderfully helpful. Others will not. Some will grant you some wonderful advice. Others you’ll just want to shut the eff up. There is no one right way to grieve, and there is no one right way to console. Some will simply want to give you hugs. Others will want to bake casseroles, send flowers or share memories. It’s because they care, and that’s what you may want to take out of the experience as a whole. But it could be helpful to see it all as a “consolation potluck:” — it’s all right if you don’t try absolutely everything that is brought to the table.

About your kids? And kids in general? The way you and your spouse explained what happened was fine. And age appropriate. There are many others out there who would agree with you (and me); there are others out there who feel that they are the experts in all things death with children; they may claim to know what’s best for your kids better than you do. I call bullshit; you know your family and your family’s belief system. And if the kids don’t quite understand it fully? That’s okay. I’m 38 and, frankly, neither do I…

Finally — there is no right or wrong way to feel and emote. We all do this in different ways. You can weep, trying to hold back tears. You can have a long, good cry where it becomes a waterfall of emotion that takes you for a ride until you’re ready to set foot back again on dry land. You can do so in private or in public. You can feel a whole range of emotions — or you can simply not feel that the emotional volume need to be turned up to maximum. It’s all about you. You’re the one with the power here. You’re the one who will get through this in the best way you know how.

It’s not a bad thing to cry or scream. Nor is it bad to smile or laugh if you feel it appropriate. I’m proud of you for not feeling ashamed of finding some humor and lightheartedness in the situation. For me, a tipping point was finding some family friends who regifted some garden-grown tomatoes as an offer of consolation — but the bag they came in still had the original card which congratulated the recipients on their new home. How can one not laugh at that? The point is: you have that control. Whether to laugh or shed tears. And at what intensity. There is no right or wrong aside from what you feel in the moment.

I’ve seen you climb some incredible mountains in the past; this one certainly is one of the harder, steeper ones to climb and you’ve been making some enormous strides in scaling it. There’s a whole lot more mountain to climb, and I have no doubt that you’ll continue that journey at your own pace.

Some of you have asked what I’ve been up to. A quick recap on February:

February 1: A Monday. We cancel Av’s regularly scheduled guitar lesson due to his siddur ceremony at school. A siddur is a Jewish prayer book, and this was the ceremony where all of the first graders received theirs. Quite beautiful and cute and such. Great group of parents and families. A late night, but totally worth it.

February 2: Groundhog Day! Surprisingly, the little guy sees his shadow. Six more weeks of winter. Such wonderful foreshadowing. Also began my two week stint training at work on a specific topic. More on that later…

February 3: Snow on the ground. Av has school canceled for the first time in February. I go to work. Lead my training. And I get my H1N1 vaccination shot. Because I’m that much ahead of the curve. 🙂

February 4: More training at work. A storm is brewing in the DC area. Apparently one bigger than the one we had in December. People make plans. They buy bread. Milk. Toilet paper. I bring home my thermos so it can have a nice round in the dishwasher. Later than evening school is canceled for Av for the next day. Without a flake even hitting the ground yet.

February 5: Impending snow-doom on the DC area. I get permission to work from home — but spend the morning stocking up the house with necessities. Interestingly enough, we deem a third Wiimote to be a necessity to play a 3-way version of Mario Kart. I do, however, work through the day — and advise my boss that I’ll be checking in throughout the weekend as most folks won’t be able to get in. By the way — this is Av’s snow day #2.

February 6: No way we’re going anywhere. We’re completely snowed in. A bit of shoveling happens. Not so effective. Lots of Mario Kart played.

February 7: Snow keeps on coming! Still at home. Late in the day we start to dig out a bit. One car can find its way out. One car is buried and isn’t going anywhere. The Superbowl apparently goes on without us leaving the house to find a party at which to watch it.

February 8: Work from home. K’s work is closed due to the snow; she makes her way to rehearsal for a teen production of “The Wizard of Oz” which she is costume designing. While Av is home from school (day #3) I slowly dig my car out…

That afternoon we get a call from the guitar teacher. He wants to know if we’ll be coming to the lesson about two miles away. I frantically see this an excuse to get myself and Av out of the house! Screw bundling up — we’re only going to be in the car for a few minutes, right? Well — on the way there, the car gets stuck in a snow bank for close to an hour. We miss the lesson, but we have a fun neighborhood interaction with several strangers who help me dig and push the car out. We go back home.

February 9: School still closed for Av (#4). New storm coming. I work from home. He goes to rehearsal with K. Snow starts falling again that evening for round 2.

February 10: Another snowstorm. This is getting old. And depressing. The snow is just gloomy. I work from home. K is home. Av’s school is canceled again. (Snow day #5 in February). We get emails from the teachers to help come up with some work to pass the time.

February 11: We dig out again. I work from home. Again. Av is off from school. Again. #6. I make it very clear that I will leave the house tomorrow if it means trudging 30 miles to work in boots.

February 12: I make it to work finally. For the first time in a week. Av remains home as school is canceled. By this time he has only had three school days in February. It feels kind of good to be back in an office, but I miss doing work without wearing pants. That evening I watch the Olympic opening ceremonies and tweet a whole bunch of #MadeUpOlympicFacts. It feels good to be back among the tweeting.

February 14: We all watch the production of “The Wizard of Oz” and go out for a family Valentine’s Day dinner and dessert. Yum!

February 15: Av finally has school again — on Presidents’ Day! Yes — the school made its own decision to override the holiday and finally go back to school. I’m back at work. We’re back to guitar lessons for the first time in three weeks. Av is doing remarkably well.

February 16: My second week of training which I was supposed to do the previous week is back on. Although people are still catching up on work so some of them don’t make it. No matter — they’ll get to it eventually…

February 17: Lots of scrambling taking place to fill out paperwork for Av’s school for the next calendar year. Involves sending a packet the size of Montana to a completely different state for processing.

February 18: Last day of this endless training session — looking forward to starting the next one as I received a lot of positive feedback. And since there’s a new emphasis on ongoing technical training in the company — I’m in a good place. Oh — and Av gets an orange belt in karate.

February 19:Sick day. Simply not feeling well. K gets me feeling better through the power of noodles. Life seems to be getting back to normal, and we decide it’s finally time we got ourselves into the 21st century and finally bought ourselves that new HDTV.

February 20: After spending the morning volunteering, it’s a nice, relaxing day at home – until we realize we need new furniture to house the new TV. And new cables. One trip to Ikea and Best Buy later and… we have an activity for the evening. After everything is assembled and hooked up, we’re too tired to watch anything.

February 21: Lazy Sunday. Chores and more. And Mario Kart on the new TV. Life is good. I’m feeling like life is going in the right direction. We’re coming back to normalcy and stability. We’re enjoying the finer things in life — but especially our family.

February 22: Went to work. Was informed that the jobs at our center would be moving elsewhere on a certain date not too far into the future. All of us are affected. All of us are unsure of our future.

February 23: Work continues as normal. But not really. People are preoccupied. We try to do the best job that we can. Some of us are networking. Looking at other options inside and outside of the company. Some folks have checked out already. Some are throwing themselves into their work. I finally make it back to the gym — been so busy throughout the month

February 24: More of the same at work. Wonderful people approach me and see how I’m doing, asking if they can get resumes to pass on. I’m thankful. And yet still trying to just figure out the next few days ahead of me.

February 25: Preparing myself for the Jewish holiday of Purim coming up over the weekend. I’m at work and doing work, but not overly concerned about the future. More pressing matters to attend to first.

February 26: TGIF. Long week. I’m in bed by 9pm.

February 27: Synagogue with my family in the morning — both K and I have our own special roles in the service. K is the first person to read out of the new Torah scroll on the Sabbath. And recites the Haftarah beautifully. That evening, we go back to synagogue for the Purim festivities. I read from the megillah. Av dresses up as a pirate. He helps me lead the ceremonial reading of the Scroll of Esther in a very Rocky Horror Picture Show type way.

February 28: I go back to synagogue for the morning celebration of Purim. And then there’s the Purim carnival at the synagogue. Ultimately the day ends with reflection on what a long month it’s been.

For just 28 days, this has felt like a hell of an eternity. Here’s hoping the next 31 move by a bit more quickly…

It has recently come to my attention that this week marks the 25th anniversary of the release of John Hughes’ film The Breakfast Club. I’d like to announce proudly that I was one of the first individuals to experience this monumental film when it came out, savoring the profound messages of teen angst and individuality throughout the story.

But announcing that wouldn’t quite be truthful.

Yet I do remember a winter evening at the beginning of February 1985. It was a Sunday evening. My parents were out together and my brother was working on the school newspaper elsewhere. I was at home procrastinating from the daunting task that was seventh grade homework. I was listening to what was then Q107 — a popular, Top 40 radio station in the Washington, DC area. Everyone listened to Q107. It was a tradition we knew would never end. (Ironically, the format suddenly changed to “Adult Contemporary Mix 107.3” the weekend I began college. But I digress…)

It was a promotional weekend based on, for some obscure reason, the number three. Three times as many songs in a row. Three times the fun. And three times the winners for their contests! I was listening as one came on — and a chance was given for THREE winners to call in and win! They would take a winner from Maryland, one from Virginia, and one from the District. All one would have to do is be the first from that jurisdiction to answer a trivia question.

The question in question: name two songs in the current Top 40 — one of which is by a band and one which is a solo act of a member of that current band. It sounds confusing when I write it out here, but hey — the suave DJ worded it in a way which could be understood for miles around.

It was a Sunday night. Most people had better things to do than to call 432-1073 with the correct answer. But not me. I called and didn’t give the obvious answer of a Phil Collins song and a Genesis song. No. Instead, I mentioned “Oh Sherrie” by Steve Perry along with “Only the Young” by Journey. That seemed to work. I was the best kind of winner — a radio contest winner. On the legendary Q107.

And my prize? That very next Thursday night, I was invited to a sneak preview of a hot new movie before it was officially released. It was called “The Breakfast Club.” I was excited. I called my friend Jeremy and gave him the good news. I waited for my parents to come home and mentioned it to them as well. “How nice,” I remember my Mom saying.

The next day, apparently, my Mom did some research on this new movie and discovered it was Rated-R. I was 12. I had already assumed that one of my parents would go with me to the screening. But I didn’t have an inkling that they would turn this opportunity down flat-out.

I was pissed. This was my prize! My glory! Something I had won! And my parents were going to take it away from me? Simply because of an R rating? True — there really wasn’t any barometer to figure out if this was going to be appropriate for someone my age or not. It could have been the next World According to Garp. Or it could have been the next Porkys. I was denied.

And I was instantly known at school as the kid whose parents wouldn’t even let him watch R-Rated movies.

I recall bringing up my grievance at a weekly family counseling session which was held the following Monday. I expected the therapist to take my side. Boy was I wrong. My Mom decided to come up with a peace offering of sorts — she got the station to send us a rockin’ Q107 t-shirt. I was amazed when I discovered that my Mom actually called the radio station to try to get another prize –and even complain that they would award sneak preview tickets to an R-Rated movie to a 12 year-old.

“But Mom!” I whined “How did you know the phone number of the radio station?” She was infringing on my territory. Q107 wasn’t a Mom thing. It was a me thing. There was no way that she could stomach the musical phenomenon that was Scritti Polliti.

She told me how she found out what the phone number was: “I listened. They say the phone number every three minutes.”

It was the first time I can remember where my Mom’s eyes spoke to me and undoubtedly said “Duh!”

Anyway, she called the request line and was transferred to the general manager’s office. He told her that if she had a problem with me winning contests on the station, the solution was to simply not have me listen to the station. Eventually she was able to get them to send me a t-shirt. In retrospect, it was a very generous gesture of my Mom. And, in retrospect, the t-shirt probably looked better after ten years than Judd Nelson.

But it wasn’t my sneak preview. I moped around for the next week. My Dad said that he would take me to the movies to see it — only after there was more information about what to expect in this R-Rated film. We didn’t end up going. I remember seeing it for the first time on VHS at a friend’s house.

But this movie to this day continues to remind me of my Mom. Who was doing the right thing at the time because she gave a damn about me — even though I felt the opposite was true. Letting a 12 year-old kid see an unknown R-Rated movie? Especially one with pot and Ally Sheedy’s nude scene? No chance.

Which is why I’ve decided not to let my seven year-old go to the movies to see “Hot Tub Time Machine” when it comes out. It may not be the most popular decision. But in 25 years? Maybe he’ll understand.

As you may be aware, I have not blogged here for a very, very long time. You may be prepared for a post about where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing, my return to blogging, etc. This is not that blog post; I hope to write that one in the not-so-far future.

(Adapted and updated from a piece I wrote back in November 2009.)

This has been something on my mind for a while now. Something I’ve felt like sharing, but since I really haven’t been in a bloggity place it hasn’t really come out. It has to do with the volunteering I’ve been doing several times a month over the past half-year.

And it’s one of those things that people will perceive in very different ways: some of you will take a look at what I’m doing and cheer, saying that I’m doing a wonderful thing. Others of you might nod a bit and take a “hey — whatever floats your boat” attitude. There will be some who think what I’m doing is stupid, and some who will see this as a counterproductive abomination to society and the heavens above.

And you know what? That’s fine. I’m still going to do it. Not because others have given me their blessings — but because I feel that this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Because I feel that what I’m doing is right.

So — what exactly is it that I’ve been doing when I wake up early on certain Saturday mornings? When I hop on the Metro and cross over into downtown DC, huddling with a cup of coffee I buy on the way while I walk the few remaining blocks, where do I go?

There’s a simple answer to this: I volunteer by helping women get to their doctors’ appointments without being harassed and/or intimidated.

I suppose that leaves out a huge chunk about why this is so controversial: The women with appointments are coming to a clinic at which I “escort.” The clinic is Planned Parenthood in Northwest Washington, DC. Planned Parenthood provides medical care and counseling for women — primarily working class women in the District. Women can make appointments for gynecological exams. Their physicians can prescribe birth control. There are counselors on site to assist women in many ways — not just limited to discussions of sexual health.

And yes — Planned Parenthood is a place where, if a woman chooses to do so, she can have her pregnancy terminated by a physician. I’ll say this in no uncertain terms in case anyone accuses me of not being direct and straightforward here: abortions. Women can get abortions at Planned Parenthood. (At least they can at the branch where I volunteer. Contact your local office for further information.)

My job is not to judge. My job is not to ask women if they are there for the normal Pap Exam or for an abortion. My job isn’t to convince women that they are making the right decision by choosing to have abortions. My job is simply to help them get into the door without being harassed. It’s trickier than you might think: we have protesters lining the sidewalks and the common area leading up to the front door all morning. There are prayer vigils. Posters of babies — and of fetuses, in-utero and aborted. Self-described “sidewalk counselors” will find any woman walking down the sidewalk — even if she’s just walking on by! — and latch on with fliers, pamphlets, and non-stop talk about how murder is occurring in that building. Some of them mention that there is always another way — and that people can help take care of their babies. It can get rather intimidating.

Here’s how a typical morning usually goes for me: we (the escorts) get there at about 8:15 or so. By that time, some of the protesters are already out front, some of them engaged in prayer vigils and mass. Some of them have their banners and signs up prominently. Many are clutching rosary beads and crosses, one of them being on the lookout to “counsel” any women who might be going to Planned Parenthood. A few of them are polite and responsive when I smile and say “good morning.” We’ve both been there for weeks; we’re simply soldiers standing guard on different sides of the battlefield. We simply have very, very different ideological differences. Others don’t acknowledge when we greet them. I’m okay with that.

We get buzzed into Planned Parenthood’s front door by Rita (not her real name), the security guard on duty. Each of us puts on an bright orange vest stating that we are clinic defenders. The phrase that sticks out the most, in big, capital letters: “PRO-CHOICE.” Some would feel that this is a misnomer, but it’s a surefire, quick way to let people know that we are with the clinic, and we are here to help those who choose to use it.

There is a coordinator on site every week — and that person is “the boss,” letting volunteers know the skinny on what might be going on that week and where to stand. Some of us are at the front door, waiting to open it quickly when a patient needs to come in — and closing it just as quickly so the protester following inches behind doesn’t have his/her shouts bellowing into the vestibule. Others are lined up on the sidewalk — sometimes playing zone coverage, other times covering individual protesters who roam around. When women (and companions) are approached by protesters, we walk alongside and ask if they need help getting in. With a smile. If we’re needed, we often talk about anything — or nothing at all — drowning out the voices of protesters and alleviating the tension. The same thing happens once someone exits the clinic: we ask if an escort is needed, and we’ll walk alongside the patients as far as they need us to go. Usually the protesters won’t go more than a block or two (but I’ve seen it happen on occasion). We do not raise our voices; if anything, our job is to diffuse any potential violence. We won’t get into a screaming match with protesters; if the patients get emotional and start yelling at them, so be it. We’re a strong, quiet force. Not there to preach, not there to argue. Just there to escort.

What happens on any given Saturday depends on a few factors: the weather is one of them. Protesters still come out on rainy and snowy days, but not in full force. (Patients are also sometimes dissuaded by bad weather.) Washington, DC is a unique place in that it’s a hotbed of political activism. There was a huge rally on September 12 of this year which had many conservative opponents of President Obama come down — many of whom passed by Planned Parenthood and decided to spontaneously join in with their own protests. A campaign called 40 Days for Life took place from the middle of September through November; we had shifts of protesters there specifically for that cause. On most Saturdays during the school year we have groups come down from Catholic University (in DC) and Christendom College (in Front Royal, VA) for their own student prayer vigils. Rumor is that students can get school credit for attending. EDIT: I have been informed by a reader that no college credit is given to Christendom students for participating. Some Saturdays we can have only a handful or protesters; other Saturdays we can see crowds into the hundreds.

Escorting at the clinic used to be a much tougher job until 1994, when the Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances (FACE) Act was passed. This is a US law passed which makes it a crime to block the entrance of an abortion clinic. I’ve spoken with some of my fellow escorts who remember the days when protesters would sit-in on sidewalks — or even park cars there. We don’t see this happening nowadays (at least I haven’t). Most of the protesters are well aware of the extent of the law. They also know exactly where our rights, as escorts, end: we can’t “assault” them (meaning we try not to touch them in any way). We make sure to travel in pairs to make sure that there is a witness to any possible accusations. Sometimes we will state the facts to protesters: “You’re not allowed to block the sidewalk.” Usually they comply pretty easily.

In fact — there is some civility there on both sides — perhaps because there is enough legal information on both sides. Example: one day we noticed a film crew shooting patients coming in and out of the clinic. One of our escorts asked them to stop — not that there was a specific legal prohibition against it, but it was seen as harassment. Almost immediately, one of the protesters asked them to stop filming as well — and they did. It’s interesting to see that, although it can be easy to see them as simply “the enemy,” they have the same type of goals that we do: they want to make their position heard in a civilized professional manner. (Some of them.) We, too, want to make sure that women are aware of all of their options, and we feel that Planned Parenthood will be a far better place for them to become better informed than pamphlets being shoved in their faces.

Usually it’s pretty clear that we’re not going to convince each other of our own views. But I have been approached by protesters in a very friendly way, trying to get me to change my ways. I mention, right up front, that I’m certainly okay to “agree to disagree.” That I’m not here to change their minds, and I’m not going to be swayed either. But some of them just won’t quit. I’ve had one protester take out a box of plastic models of fetuses of different sizes (I kid you not), lecturing me on gestation. I’ve had protesters say that my position aligns me with Planned Parenthood founder Margaret Sanger who had some nutty opinions about eugenics and culling the herd. Other times I’ve had labels thrown at me: godless. accessory to murder. Murderer. Racist (in that our clinic serves primarily African-American women). Misogynist. Child-hater. (Only the ones who run around shopping malls with no boundaries — and I hate those parents more than I do the kids). Evil. I’ve even been called a “tool of the devil.” (I certainly won’t argue with being a tool; I’ve been called that many times before.)

I’ve marched in DC supporting women’s reproductive rights. I’ve supported Planned Parenthood in petitions and donations. I have voted for candidates who feel the same way I do about the right of women to choose what happens with their bodies. But this is different: This goes against the grain a bit. I suppose it’s potentially dangerous (although the chances are very small that I’d be in a situation where I would risk my life). It begs the question if this is something I really feel is right. It’s easy to march among thousands for a cause. But what happens when you’re one in a sea of others who feel differently from you? I’ve determined that yes — this is where I’m supposed to be. This is what I’m supposed to do.

And I get my share of thank yous from people passing by. I smile at them. I also get a lot of stares from those who don’t condone what I’m doing or who think I look foolish in a bright orange vest. I smile at them as well.

When I go home at the end of the shift, however, I feel like I’ve helped make a difference. And that’s what counts for me.

If you’re interested in knowing how to get involved in clinic escorting. In the DC area our organization is called the Washington Area Clinic Defense Task Force (WACDTF). I happened to read about Clinic Defense through a blog — and had found it to be intriguing since my Mom and I had spoken about it years back. (She was a strong supporter of Planned Parenthood). If you’re interested in volunteering, you can do a web search on “Clinic Defense” and your local area.

Note about comments: feel free to post whatever replies you’d like. Praise me. Condemn me. Compare me to Hitler. Whatever. Just know that I’m not going to engage in a debate about abortion rights. This isn’t a post to try to convince anyone that my viewpoint trumps the opposite one; I’m just chronicling what I’m doing and how it makes me feel.

I found out about him on Sunday night from a former co-worker. Scott*, our group manager, had died of a heart attack on Saturday morning. He was 54.

I couldn’t believe it. It’s even still difficult for me to accept now.

I guess you simply would have to see Scott to see where I was coming from. Peppered hair. Square jaw. Broad shoulders. Always walked tall and with purpose. Looked healthy. Very healthy. This was a man on a perpetual mission. He had things to do continuously. Sometimes he’d get sidetracked and do other things, but he always kept his eye on what had to be done.

It was extremely clear that Scott enjoyed action. Activity. The guy was in very good shape physically. He spent his weekends serving as a football referee. He certainly didn’t live the sedentary lifestyle. Yet sometimes it just happens: dead at 54 from a heart attack. It’s not always about physical fitness (although it certainly does help). Some people die after living a long life; others’ have their lives cut short sooner than expected.

Scott’s memorial service is going to be tomorrow during the business day. We were told by our current management to check in with them if we wanted to go — to ensure that we have enough coverage at work. I won’t be going, however, so it’s really not a huge issue for me.

Come to think of it — I really wasn’t a huge fan of Scott’s in the workplace. I vaguely remember when he took over our department. He was a loose cannon with his words, trying to make an impact and often seeing the results backfire in his face. I think he was trying to scare people into submission when, several years back, he gave his “I don’t give a shit about morale” speech. To his credit, he changed his philosophy soon after.

This was a man who loved to talk. About himself and his own thoughts. If there was an opportunity to bring people together for a meeting where he could shine, he would do so. And throw in his own personal anecdotes about how he had rubbed shoulders with the high level executives of our company on the golf course. Or how he had the foresight during the dot com bubble to buy stock in some of the faster climbing properties. I recall a training class I was orchestrating where he came in to say hello — and ended up monopolizing the opportunity to tell everyone about the misfortune he had, moving to a new, exclusive community and not having his DirecTV hooked up yet.

I know that he wanted to give the impression that he was buddy-buddy with his employees. There were certain things he remembered, but he made sure to let us know that he remembered it. He made a big deal once about how he knew I wouldn’t be working on the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur. He knew which co-workers loved the Cowboys so he could trash talk with them during football season. It turns out that one of his kids was born exactly a week after Av was; after some reminding he figured out that we had that in common. He even solicited suggestions for Av’s birthday party (which were way out of our budget). I think he may have started to invite Av over for a playdate once, but he was sidetracked and started talking about his 57 inch HDTV instead.

But he did know me as an employee. Keep in mind that this was my boss’s boss. (And, for a while, my boss’s boss’s boss.) I had proven myself pretty early on that I could do my job exceptionally and be a go-to guy for special projects. When I received a promotion a few years back, it was actually done via a phone conversation by his boss who works at a different location. But he wanted to be the one to tell me, so he called me into a meeting the next day to surprise me with it. It was a nice feeling.

Overall, I wasn’t so impressed with him as a manager. I’m sure that he had an incredible load of responsibilities on his plate — including people yelling at him from all different directions seven days a week. He would, in some cases, simply do his own yelling down the chain until something would get done. Sometimes he would get involved in an issue; sometimes not. There was one recent issue that he and I worked together — on a conference call late on a Saturday night until 8:00am Sunday morning. Well, kind of. I was on the call the entire time as I was doing some diagnostic work around the clock. He turned in a few hours into it. I was the one who called to wake him up at 6:00 to rejoin the call. But the way he told it — it was quite the rough night for him.

But he did say thank you to me. And some of my co-workers. Not everyone, though. He played favorites and non-favorites. He would poke fun at people light-heartedly just a little too long for it to be comfortable, but not quite long enough to make a strong case to HR. He would speak with absolute certainty about the future plans for our organization — and then change the story an hour later. He certainly had his place in the organization — one where he made things happen — but there were many other aspects of the job where we secretly hoped that we would slip under the radar so things would progress as they should without his interference.

I’ve had many supervisors in my employed years. Many of them have been mentors and guides. People to whom I’ve looked up and emulated. Some of whom I continue to share a relationship to this day.

Scott was not one of them.

Look — I’m sorry. There really isn’t much which I can say about the guy. I’ve come home from work angry because of things that he’s said or done. For work where credit wasn’t given as it should have been. For moves he made which simply wasted time and energy on my part or the part of co-workers. I’m certainly not happy that he’s dead. Nor am I rejoicing that he’s no longer leading our organization. But professionally for me, he didn’t fit the role of someone who took me under his wing. Or taught me how to advance in my career goals.

He is survived by a wife (whom I haven’t met), a young son (whom I haven’t met) and a young daughter (whom I haven’t met). It sounds like he was a man surrounded by a wonderful family and a wonderful community. At least I’d like to think so from the way he spoke of the people he held dear. I honestly hope that they will be there at the memorial service tomorrow, supporting his wife and kids through this difficult time for them.

I’d really like to believe that Scott was a stand-up guy. That the limited slice of what I saw of him wasn’t the full story. That it was the exception to the rule: a tarnished role for someone who, outside of this environment, could shine far more brightly.

Today is a milestone for our son — as he participates in a “Bridging Ceremony” which brings him from the end of Kindergarten to the beginning of a new grade, a new stage in his educational and personal development. It also happens to be the last day of school; his gears will be shifting quite a bit after today.

After a lot of thinking, it’s time for me to shift some gears as well. Which is why this will be my last Shiny’s Takeout post for quite a while.

When I started blogging several years ago, I felt it was the most amazing thing: I’m often better at writing than speaking conversationally, and I liked it when I received positive feedback and affirmation from a community of readers. My community has been nothing but wonderful — sharing aspects of their lives and thoughts through blogging itself. I’ve been lucky enough to meet some of you in person and develop some wonderful friendships.

Somewhere down the line, however, I started using my blogging as an escape from my own personal life and dealing with my own issues. I had seen this pattern years before when the social community was IRC. Both platforms gave me a chance to shine. Both of them helped me feel validated when I felt I couldn’t validate myself. But there was a dark side there: I was losing track of what I needed to be happy in my own personal life.

It’s been a lot easier to go online and read blogs and tweets and reply with my witty remarks or helpful information. And for people to laugh at my jokes and make me feel good about myself. But it’s taken a toll: I’ve been working at a job where, every day, I sit down in front of two computers, spending a lot of that time extracurricularly following a specific community of people online. On my way home when I’m stuck in traffic, I’ll fire up Twitter on my phone and follow that same community. And when I’m home? I’m back on the computer spending time following people online. This is great when done in moderation. But I’ve no longer done this in moderation.

I weight a shade less than 300 pounds. I eat in front of the computer a lot of the time. This is far from healthy. I have high blood pressure, and my mother died at an early age. Being so consumed with the online community is dangerous.

I have issues in my own life that I’ve been beginning to face (thanks to therapy and the advice of friends), yet the online world is becoming more and more of an escape for me and an obstacle for getting shit done. My productivity at work is down. My focus on my family and my marriage has taken a back seat to emotional investments in the online world. I think now, more than ever, I’m realizing that I need to face the music and stop escaping to a better place where everybody knows my name. I want to be a better person, a better husband, and a better father.

So I’m giving this blog a rest. I don’t know for how long, but will at least be long enough to shift my gears. You’ll also find me absent from Twitter and from your blogs. I wanted to put this out there instead of simply disappearing off the face of the blogosphere. I’m still here; I just need to stay unplugged until I can learn how to plug in in moderation.

If you’re reading this, it’s very likely that I’ve had some wonderful exchanges with you. You all are a very talented, empathetic and loving bunch of people. Please stay that way. I do hope to return when I’ve learned more self-control. And I hope I find the same welcoming community as I’ve found before.

Just two quick notes: All of this was done in good fun. And was quite random and spur of the moment. Voices are impersonated. Nobody was meant to intentionally fall down.

Furthermore, I didn’t mention absolutely everyone — and I feel bad about it as I had some pretty wonderful times with you all. Please don’t take it as a sleight if you’re not mentioned (or not mentioned much). You all are truly great.

You know what’s all the rage nowadays with the crazy, internet savvy kids?

Apparently it’s the MySpace — a world where teens can make their own websites (hence, the name! MySpace!) and chat with other likeminded teens. The local televised news has been telling me about it. As well as how I should be fearful of the Internet because I’m a parent. I mean, he’s not a teen yet, and his preferred websites are Disney and FunBrain and Poptropica, but apparently he’ll be in dangerous territory soon enough.

But that’s not what I had in mind about what happens to be all the rage. What I was thinking of was “literal music videos.”

Someone started the craze by watching A-ha’s “Take On Me” and seeing how original yet bizarre the video was. It follows a storyline (very loosely) which doesn’t have much to do with the lyrics. So — they overdubbed a version of the song explaining the literal visualizations of the music video. It was quite unique.

Anyway, I’m off on a great adventure for the weekend: I’ll be driving to Baltimore, boarding a plane for Louisville, and then driving another car to Lexington where apparently I’ll be driving to, of all places to a bowling alley. How bizarre is that?

ut I’ll be seeing many blogger friends — some of whom I’ve met in person and many of whom I haven’t quite yet. And that shall be the phenomenon of ConFab. (Or, if you prefer, ConFab, Baby.)

What is ConFab, Baby? Not quite sure — but it’s rather scary and intimidating if you heed the message in this official, yet not quite safe for work video:

As a tribute to our wonderful hosts for the weekend, I wanted to do something special: something original yet not entirely felonious. And then I looked above at the first part of this post and realized what I should be doing — namely, a literal version of the ConFab, Baby video.

Which was far more difficult than I thought because the video pretty much literally follows the lyrics created by Fab and Turnbaby (with no apologies to Kid Rock).

So it was a challenge, but I think I followed through to an extent. True, I don’t have subtitles (yet?) and the audio levels are quite distorted when I sing (along with myself, trying desperately to hit the high notes without touching myself too inappropriately).

Anyway — this is for you, Fab and Turnbaby. Thanks in advance for a lovely time. Literally.

Just a couple of them this time around — since I haven’t bestowed any ippity goodness with you all for a while:

* A while back I posted a query on Facebook regarding an outdoor lamp I was trying to replace at the front of our home. The issue at hand was removing the old lamp: it had (likely) been installed when the house was built in the mid-1970s. And the screws holding the lamp in were more rusted and stripped than Joanna Kerns after shooting a made-for-TV movie on Lifetime. I received some good advice for extracting the screw (Thanks to MetalMom and her husband!) — which worked to an extent. But the real problem was caulk. Stuffed inside the junction box. Which, when you’re an immature oaf like I am, sounds really quite funny.

Anyway — after hacking through the mess of caulk, we were finally able to get the old lamp off and the new one installed. And re-caulked (snort). So the new lamp is up and working! And it has a motion sensor! And a “dusk to dawn” mode! (Which disappointed me a bit; it apparently means that the light goes on automatically when it gets dark out. And has nothing to do with vampires and watching Salma Hayek dance with a snake.) I’ll post pictures sometime soon…

* My kid is wonderful. Smart. Clever, even. But he doesn’t quite understand how jokes work. Some of the stuff that works (slightly) for him is material which he simply imitates from television. He doesn’t understand those jokes, but he knows that they get laughs and he copies it with the proper inflection. But when left to his own devices, he simply doesn’t know how to tell a joke. They often go a lot like this:

Him: “Hey – want to hear a joke?”

Me: “Sure…”

Him: “I just finished that and now — Meeeshon Accomplished!”

Me [ . . . ]

Yeah. It’s that random. It almost makes me want to teach him to say “Ay, Dios Mio!” after each punchline so I know that the joke is over…

* Went to visit my Dad today. On the way back home, I got curious and decided to drive by the old house — the one where I grew up. And the one that, as of two months ago, no longer belongs to my dad. I suppose I wanted to know if it was still there, still looked the same, had been converted into a convenience store a la Grosse Pointe Blank, etc.

As I drove by, there was a minivan which had just pulled into the driveway. Out came a mom and a kid, probably about eight years old. She was carrying a violin case and was wearing a Hello Kitty backpack. I didn’t get any other details (I was driving the speed limit at the time) but it seems like this new family is making their own memories in their home. Which is a good thing. I wish ’em the best.

* I’m impressed with Apple’s “Genius Bar” mode of technical support. The speaker on my iPhone was beginning to die. I wasn’t sure what to expect in terms of technical support — as I’ve read about the horrors of Geek Squad and other similar store-brand fix-it departments which have left customers feeling ripped-off and agitated. Genius Bar, however, was different: First, I was able to pre-book an appointment to bring in my iPhone to a store location. That, in itself, helped to ensure that I wouldn’t be kept waiting. (And it probably helps to diffuse frustrated, waiting customers a bit as well). I was helped almost immediately. When the problem was seen and was unable to be fixed, I was simply provided with a new (or refurbished?) iPhone. One that was working. my service guarrantee would cover that one as well. Easy. It made me realize that some models of customer service actually can work.

* Finally finished the remaining episodes of Prison Break. I had followed the show from day one and have felt that it was one of the better shows that has graced the airwaves over the past four years. I rolled my eyes a bit when they resurrected the character of Dr. Sara “Surprise! I’m not really dead!” Tancredi. But hey — they added Michael Rappaport as a main character, so I found it to be an acceptable suspension of reality. They managed to tie everything up at the end in a neat little bow, but not without a whole lot of other unbelievable moments. All in all — glad I watched, but more glad that it’s over.

* That’s all for now. I don’t use bullets for my posts, so I suppose I’ll save the last asterisk for me.